So Fled the Shadow
by Arien45
Summary: "The shadow is not destroyed," he told her, for he sensed the optimism in her voice and it seemed important that he not let her believe. She locked her gaze with his. "It will be," she said. "Do not lose hope." Update: Now she's the one in need of comfort, and Éomer is in the habit of paying his debts. He just has to figure out how.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Lord of the Rings_ or any affiliated works, and I am not making a profit from this story. **

**Author's Note: Hi! This is my first LotR story, or at least the first one I'm comfortable posting. I absolutely adore Tolkien's work and Éomer is one of my favorite characters. I know this story has been done about five hundred times by far better writers, but hopefully I was able to add enough of a twist to keep it interesting. Initially I intended this to be a standalone piece, but I think the story has taken hold and I may possibly continue it. Thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoy the story!**

 **...**

Éomer jumped off Firefoot, who snorted and stamped his hooves, sensing his Rider's unease. Éomer gave him a conciliatory pat. He knew Firefoot did not like the White City much more than he did himself; the cramped streets were no place for horses.

"Soon, my friend," he said, stroking the horse's neck, "we will ride the open plains again." Despite their success at lifting the siege of Mundburg, Éomer knew the war was not at an end. Aragorn was holding a council later on to decide on the proper course of action, and Éomer would be there when the time came. But he had another duty to see to first. He left Firefoot standing to the side, tied with a slipknot the warhorse could undo with his teeth if Éomer commanded it. He threw open the doors of the Houses of Healing and strode inside, making for the private room where his sister now slept and ignoring the healers who quietly bustled about cots full of recovering warriors. The room was dark, save for the pinpricks of candles that the healers carried.

He was about to enter Éowyn's chamber when a woman clad in a healer's white robe stepped between him and the door.

"My lord, you cannot enter yet," she said, quietly but firmly. "She woke a few minutes ago and is bathing now."

He rolled his eyes, sighed, and stepped back. "How long will it take?"

"Half an hour," she said, re-pinning a lock that had fallen from the intricately twisted hair atop her head. "No more."

He figured he might as well make the most of his time in this overblown infirmary. "I'll see to my men," he said, to no one in particular.

The woman was still there, her soft voice contrasting his own. "It is four in the morning. I think your gallant men would rather sleep than be woken, even if 'tis to converse with your royal person."

He sighed. He supposed she was right. "I dislike wasting time." They had such little time left, after all.

"I can understand that, my lord," she said. "Might I ask why you are awake so early?"

The 'my lords' were grating on his nerves. Until a few days ago, Éothain was the only one who'd ever called him that, and then only in jest. Now everyone bowed to him and called him by titles that did not feel like his. It was Théoden, his uncle, who had been "my lord king" and "your royal highness" and "Ruler of the Mark." Not him, Éomer Éomund's son. He captained an éored, yes, was the Third Marshall of the Mark, but never its ruler. Since Théodred had been killed he hadn't had the time to adjust to being heir. He'd been locked up by the Wormtongue and then they'd had so many battles to fight that he'd been sure he would die and leave Éowyn to rule long and wisely as their uncle had wished.

He glanced at the healer. "I did not feel like sleeping, and no, I do not want any drugs to help me rest." Various healers had tried to give him poppy or laudanum five or six times in the past few days alone. But he did not want sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the fell beast attack his uncle and Snowmane, glimpsed a slim, bright figure leap between the Witchking and his victims.

Her eyes widened. "I would not have offered you drugs, my lord."

There it was again, that title. He sighed as he realized that he was now reduced to snapping at unsuspecting women, a far cry from his once easygoing manner. Then again, he told himself, in the old days his sister had not been on the edge of succumbing to the Black Breath and his uncle and cousin had not been dead. Still, as much as he might dislike it, he was king now and he should act like it. He forced himself to take a deep breath before answering. "I am sorry. Do you know how my sister fares?"

"It was a bad wound," she replied slowly. "But Elessar's skill brought her back from the brink, and I think she will recover. Though my opinion is not as good as that of one of the matrons."

"Are you not one?" He asked, looking at her garb and realizing for the first time that she was young, Éowyn's age or less.

She glanced down for a moment. "I am only a volunteer. My father and brothers all rode to battle, but I could only serve Gondor with the skills I have."

He sighed bitterly. "Would that my sister were more like you."

She took a quick step back, raising her candle slightly so he could see more of her face in its warm light. "Surely you don't mean that, my lord? I would pay a steep price to be more like her! There is not a day that has gone by since the battle that I have not wished I had an ounce of the White Lady's courage in my weak form."

"Of course I don't mean that," he said, shocked by the sudden fervor with which she spoke. "I just wish she had never been in danger." Not that it mattered much anyway, he thought. Soon the world would fall, and there was nothing he or Aragorn or even Gandalf could do to stop it, and the Black Breath would take them all. Even Éowyn. He could not suppress a shudder at the thought.

She nodded, oblivious to his musings, and when she spoke her tone was soft again. "I understand what it is to worry about those you love."

She did not apologize, which surprised him. He was not offended; rather, it was refreshing for a Gondorian civilian to treat him as almost an equal instead of either of the other two extremes. "Your family," he said. "What has become of them?"

"To tell of my good fortune seems like gloating," she said, not meeting his eyes. "All survived, except for one of my cousins who died months ago. Another cousin took grievous wounds, but he will make a full recovery."

"I am glad for you," he said. "It is well to hear that there is some good even in this darkness. But I am sorry about your cousin."

She inclined her head. "Thank you. He was one of the bravest men Gondor shall ever know, and he died defending people he loved against Uruk-hai."

That struck him as odd. If her cousin was of Gondor, it was unlikely he had fought Saruman's horde. Surely she knew the difference between Uruk-hai and orcs? "Uruks?"

"Yes, he fell far from home, in the cold North. But I am sure that wherever his spirit wanders, he is happy to see the shadow lifted from this city, which meant more to him than all the riches between Harad and the Lonely Mountain."

With her every word, he grew more and more curious about who she was. Her manners and her bearing, from her squared shoulders to the proud tilt of her chin, were clearly those of a noble woman, and her accent was Gondorian, but not of Mundburg – though for some reason it sounded slightly familiar to his ears. "The shadow is not destroyed," he told her, for he sensed the optimism in her voice and it seemed important that he not let her believe.

She locked her gaze with his. "It will be," she said. "Do not lose hope."

He knew he should not drop his guard in front of one of the people, but her simple faith was too much for his kingly façade to bear. "How can you say that so surely? The final days of the war are at hand; and the contest will soon be decided. On the day we face him, we will all still be but Men, and Men are weak." That was what Saruman had said, that was what the Elves believed, and who was wiser than they?

She stepped closer to him, and she had to look up to meet his gaze. Her voice was controlled, but just barely, as if she were trying to rein in a fire. "Listen to me, you Rohir. For months the eastern sky was blackened, and when Sauron unleashed his orcs he sent a cloud of darkness to smother us, and the thunder rolled. His legions were like a sea on the Pelennor and with every hour they beat against this city like a black tide. They tore down our buildings and stained the white stones red with our blood. We were hopeless. I thought Sauron would consume us and cast the world into everlasting darkness and sorrow. And then I heard the horns of Rohan and I knew – I _knew_ that the shadow did not reach to Anor in Varda's heavens. I knew the sun was rising and it mattered not that I could not see it, because I could feel it. That is what your Rohirrim are to me, to Gondor. You faced the Shadow and it _fled_ before you though you were but Men. I will never lose hope again." Her eyes shone and a tear slipped down her cheek, but she did not back away.

He was silent for a moment, struck dumb, for he was sure he had glimpsed the bright flame of her soul. Perhaps not all was lost. "Thank you," he said thickly, at long last. "When I face the shadow again, I will think of you, my lady." His words hung in the air for a moment before he added quickly, "And of your words."

"I will look to the east for your return, my lord."

He stared at her unashamedly for a long minute, and she returned his gaze until one of the patients moaned in his sleep. She drew herself up. "I must see to him. I will take my leave of you. Do not forget what I said."

"I will not," he said as she turned to go. "Wait!"

"Yes?"

"What is your name?"

She gave him a small smile. "Lothíriel."

He was sure he had heard the name before, but for the life of him he could not remember where.

…

As the host waited to set off for the march to the Black Gates, Amrothos, his boisterous manner only slightly subdued, insisted on telling the funniest stories he could remember from his childhood in his home in Dol Amroth. He and his brother Erchirion had been compulsive mischief-makers, and Éomer smiled as he recalled getting into similar trouble with Théodred and Éowyn.

All the men within earshot were laughing, and the sounds of their merriment echoed against the cliffs. "… And then Lothí put us in two of her pink cloaks and made us play tea-party with her, and Aunt Ivriniel never found us!"

Now he remembered! Imrahil's daughter! Almost involuntarily he turned in Firefoot's saddle, and looked for the Houses of Healing, far above. A single figure stood outside the gates, her dark hair loosed and billowing in the wind. He could not see her face but he knew it was she, and he knew in his heart that she would see the shadow banished from the world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own** _ **The Lord of the Rings**_ **and I am not making a profit from this story. The sentences in italics are, of course, quotes from** _ **The Return of the King**_ **, and are certainly not mine.**

 **Note: Thank you so much to those who reviewed and followed! You were a huge help in the decision to continue this story, and I really appreciate the support! So, after posting the last chapter, I did some plotting, and I have a pretty clear idea of where this story is going. Updates should be regular for the time being. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

…

 _2_

The early spring morning found Cormallen full of tired and wounded soldiers, and there were many horses that now lacked a rider. But the Shadow was lifted. Éomer felt a quiet lightness in his heart, and he knew that the others felt it, too. Now they could rebuild.

Éomer had sent three messengers to Mundburg with orders to bring Éowyn back with them, but she would not come. The messengers all reported that she was in much better health, and the latest brought a handwritten note telling him not to worry, that she was content to remain in Mundburg, where she was a guest in the house of the Steward, and that she would wait on his return. He worried all the same. A few weeks ago, she would have been thrilled to be among the warriors. What could have changed? Was she still angry with him for not letting her ride with him to the Black Gates? He doubted it; the fact that she had sent a note at all instead of ignoring him completely was a sign to the contrary. And she had signed it, "Ever your loving sister." He supposed he would find out once he got back to Mundburg. Still, he missed her badly.

He had taken Firefoot out for a ride before the rest of the camp awoke, although he had seen Legolas up and about, walking among the Rohirric horses in their makeshift corrals. Éomer had waved at him, and then he and Firefoot had set off. They had patrolled the area surrounding the camp, making a large circle, but had come across no enemies, which was just as well because they were both still tired from the long months of campaigning and sorrow, and now the adrenaline that had kept Éomer going was all gone. He didn't push Firefoot, either, keeping him at a steady trot over the oft-treacherous terrain. It had been a long time since they'd last taken a ride for the simple joy of it, and the time alone helped Éomer to clear his mind some. Théoden and Théodred and many good friends and brothers-in-arms were dead, but Éowyn lived and Sauron was destroyed for all eternity. And now Éomer would be king. It was not a title he had ever wanted, but Éowyn would help him. He realized, as if for the first time, that she had defeated the Witchking who all men feared, and she had lived. He had always known she was more than just a capable warrior; she had trained with him and Théodred since they were young. Perhaps he ought to make her a captain. She would like that, he knew, even if he hated to put her in danger. If he was to honor anyone for deeds of arms, it should be her, for who else could have done what she did – who else had been brave enough to stand between Théoden and the Nazgûl?

Yes, she would enjoy being a captain. He knew that if she had been a man, she would already be one. And yes, having a woman commander would be a bit unorthodox in this day and age, but shield-maidens had once been common in Rohan and he was sure the people would embrace the idea; Éowyn had always been well-loved and respected. Now he would do what was right and see his sister happy. He smiled. Together they would restore Edoras; it had fallen into disrepair in recent years, ever since the Wormtongue had used his gilded words to smother their spirits. He thought of what Gandalf had said to him about Éowyn feeling trapped and useless these past months. _"You had horses, and deeds of arms, and the free fields; but she, being born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours. Yet she was doomed to wait upon an old man, whom she loved as a father, and watch him falling into a mean dishonored dotage, and her part seemed to her more ignoble than the staff he leaned on."_

He still seethed to think of Gríma, pouring his poison into her cup, debasing the House of Eorl so that she would fall more easily into his snare. Béma help the Wormtongue if Éomer ever set eyes on him again. But the sky was bright and the Shadow was ended and he could not stay angry for long. Already the sun was gathering strength, making Éomer roll up his sleeves.

Eventually he turned Firefoot back to camp with the slightest pressure from his knees. It was still early, but the camp was beginning to stir, and there was much work to be done. He decided to visit his wounded first, to see how they had fared through the night.

They had set up a makeshift infirmary rather than bear all the wounded back to Mundburg, but they did not lack in supplies and many matrons from the city had come to do their healing work. Éomer tied Firefoot to a post in front of the vast hospital tent, and stepped through the entrance. The interior was well-lit, the rays of sun seeping through the canvas. Ethelred, a warrior from his own éored, was awake on one of the cots in the row nearest the door, and hailed him, and many took up the call. Ethelred had taken an arrow to the thigh, but he seemed in good spirits and assured Éomer that he would be ready to return to his duties in a fortnight.

Éomer walked up and down the aisles of cots upon which his injured warriors lay. Not all of them were recovering as well as Ethelred, and Éomer felt his heart sicken at the sight of so many of his brave countrymen maimed and dying. They had lost much; their victory was greatly tempered with sorrow. He spoke to each of them individually; at least to those who were capable of holding a conversation. He wished Aragorn could heal earthly maladies, not only the shadow-sickness, but he knew the matrons were well trained and were doing everything in their power. The battlefield hospital was clean and mostly calm, now that the matrons had had a few days to work.

He was startled when he heard raised voices, off to the side in a corner.

"What in the names of Elendil and Númenor are you doing here?" The voice was angry, shocked, and familiar. When Éomer looked up, he saw Erchirion glaring at Lothíriel, who wore a white apron over a pale green gown instead of the typical healer's garb he had seen her in when they first met. Elphir and Amrothos were approaching them, wearing thunderous expressions.

He watched and saw that she kept her back ramrod-straight and her chin set at a proud angle. "I am tending to the wounded."

Erchirion hugged her suddenly, and once he let her go, she embraced her other two brothers. "No," Elphir said, shaking his head. "Why are you here and not at home?"

So, the Swan Knights had not known their sister was serving as a medic. She had neglected to mention that to him. "You three and father were here."

"You could have been killed!" Amrothos burst out, cursing. "Do you know how many civilians lost their lives? You should have stayed in Dol Amroth, where it was safe!"

Éomer had shifted so he could see her face, and her eyes burned with the same fire they had when she had confronted him. Her voice was steel, and reminded him strikingly of Éowyn. "I was not taught to flee from peril. I was needed here."

Amrothos threw his arms around her again. "I am safe," she said, this time without any edge to her voice. "And you are, too. Oh, I was so worried about you! Papa is all right, isn't he?"

"He is," Erchirion said. "But he'll have a conniption when he finds out you have been here the whole time!"

"How long?" Elphir asked.

"Three weeks," she said. "And I left Dol Amroth in your wife's capable hands. She and Alphros are fine, and so is the city. When I left there had not been a corsair raid for two months."

Éomer kept moving among his men, not wanting to disturb the reunited siblings, but Amrothos spotted him and called him over. "Éomer! Come and meet our sister!"

He approached them, returning the smiles of his friends, but his eyes were on Lothíriel. Her night-dark hair was pinned up again, though not as severely as in the Houses of Healing, and a few curling strands had escaped their bonds. In the soft morning light he saw that her eyes were the grey of Númenor, or perhaps light green. He would have to get closer to tell. Freckles were scattered across her high cheekbones and her lips were red, and underneath the large apron she had a fair figure.

"Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, meet Éomer King of Rohan," Elphir, Imrahil's eldest, said solemnly.

"He killed all the orcs in his path with barely a struggle, Lothí! He could have destroyed every orc in Mordor if he'd had the chance." Amrothos said. "I saw it myself."

Éomer grinned wider at Amrothos's praise.

"My lord," Lothíriel said shyly, casting her gaze downward, and dropped a deep curtsy.

Éomer tamped down the sudden urge to gently lift her chin up, so that she might know he did not expect such deference. That would be much too forward in Gondor, especially in front of her brothers. "The Lady Lothíriel and I have already met, in Mundburg's Houses of Healing, though I did not know who she was at the time."

"Really?" Erchirion asked. "What happened?"

"My lord Éomer was waiting to visit the Lady Éowyn," she said, without looking at him.

Éomer wondered where the fiery woman had gone in the space of just a few moments. She had certainly not been this shy when she had berated him for losing hope. He gave a short laugh, trying to put her at ease. "I was on the brink of despair," he admitted to her brothers. "And I got no sympathy from her! She was like a captain, telling me to buck up and stop feeling sorry for myself."

Amrothos laughed. "That's our Lothí all right! She's not one for pity and comfort; she's all business! I'm glad those family traits bypassed me!"

Elphir rolled his eyes at his youngest brother. "I, for one, am not."

They all laughed at that, even Lothíriel. Her eyes met his for a moment and she gave him a soft smile before she looked back at her brothers. "My shift will be over soon," she said. "I will find Father then."

"Do you know where his tent is?" Elphir asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "I would have to be blind to miss the Swan Banner, Elphir," she said dryly.

Her brothers took their leave soon enough, and Éomer returned to inspecting his men, but he kept her at the edge of his sight. She spoke gently to her patients, and worked tirelessly. Every so often another lock of hair would fall from her bun and brush against her neck. A short while later, she spoke to one of the matrons on duty, then untied her apron and folded it up, leaving it in a box of other aprons. Éomer caught up with her as she made her way to the doorway, and he held the tent flap open for her.

"Thank you, my lord."

"Are you headed to your father's tent?"

She nodded. "Yes. I've missed him sorely since he and my brothers went to war. Although Erchirion was right when he said that Papa will be furious that I am here."

"I can understand that." He tensed, images of finding Éowyn broken near his uncle's body flashing through his mind. _Éowyn, Éowyn, how came you here?_ That had been the worst moment of his life.

She placed a cool hand on his bare arm. "I was not on the battlefield," she said softly. "I am uninjured and all danger has passed. This is not the same as your sister's situation. You had just cause to worry about her, my lord."

"I am not sure your father will see much difference," he said, although he relaxed a little under her feather-light touch. She withdrew her hand all too soon. On his other side, he reached for Firefoot's reins and untied the horse. He noticed Lothíriel gazing steadily at the warhorse, her eyes wide.

"He is magnificent," she breathed. "Truly, he is fit to be a king's steed."

"Thank you," he said. "Do you ride, my lady?"

He could not suppress a grin when she nodded. "As well as all my brothers! But our horses are mostly Haradrim stock, mixed with some Rohirric blood. They are smaller, but very swift."

He had noticed that; all the Swan Knights had horses such as she described, with dished profiles, arched necks, long croups, and high tail carriage. They were very fine, to be sure, though she was right to call them smaller. All the Dol Amroth chargers Éomer had seen were under fifteen hands, which would normally be considered a pony, except that their build was light, almost fragile. Rohirric warhorses all stood at least fifteen hands, and they were nowhere near fragile. "Perhaps we will race one day," he said.

"I think I would win," she said, her lips twitching into a small smile. "My horse and I would weigh far less than you and Firefoot."

He smirked. "If you say so, my lady. But don't underestimate him; all his bulk is pure muscle, and he has spirit."

"We shall see," she said as if she did not believe him, then looked back at the warhorse. "May I pet him?"

Éomer glanced at the stallion. To him, Firefoot was as good as any house pet, but he was a stallion trained for war, and he could be aggressive. Now though, he seemed perfectly calm, even among the chaos of the camp. Éomer nodded. "Yes, but be wary. He has bitten many a careless groom."

She straightened up, her head held high. "I am not careless."

Éomer could not help but smirk at her, even as she approached the horse steadily, clucking her tongue just loud enough that he could hear it. Firefoot took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and allowed her to stroke his face right between his eyes, like a kitten.

"You are the handsomest horse I have ever seen," she said. She patted Firefoot some more, cooing to him and running her slender fingers through his mane, and Éomer watched them, feeling the slightest, silliest bit jealous of the attention she was laying on his warhorse. He locked eyes with Firefoot for a moment, and knew that if the stallion had human speech, he would be laughing.

They began walking toward the center of the camp, the many banners snapping in the cooling breeze, high above the mass of tents. He glanced at her. "What is your horse called?" he asked, eager to continue the conversation.

She smiled. "Felagund. He's a grey gelding – the sweetest horse in the world. I trained him from a colt. I will be glad to see him again; he, too went to war, as Elphir's remount."

"I would like to know more about Dol Amroth horses," he said. "I had never seen any before the battle on the Pelennor."

"I would be happy to show them to you," she replied. "I spent many long hours in my father's stables after daily lessons."

He laughed. "Daily lessons! I remember those! Éowyn and Théodred and I went through half a dozen tutors and we spent most days riding on the plains rather than at our lessons. An outdoor education served me well, I think."

"Amrothos and Erchirion were the same, but Elphir has always been diligent."

"And you, my lady."

She shook her head. "I sat through most of my lessons, but there were days that I went sailing or riding with Amrothos and Erchirion instead. Those were the best."

They spoke until they reached the center of camp and all the commanders' tents. "Maybe if you have the time, this afternoon you might show me the horses."

She nodded. "I will be at the corrals." Giving Firefoot a final pat, she walked off, her skirt swirling and swishing like the high grass at Edoras in the summer wind.

…

By mid-afternoon Éomer was ready to fire most of his uncle's advisors. They had traveled to Gondor after swift messengers brought news of the victory back to Rohan, and now they were all jockeying to be his favorite. After Gríma, though, Éomer never wanted to hear honeyed words again, and the day spent in the advisors' presence had reminded him yet again that he had never wanted any part of ruling. He would rather be on the fields, with Éothain at his side and the éored's horses thundering to victory. He smiled bitterly. Perhaps he would abdicate and make Éowyn queen, and he could go back to the life he had loved. Certainly he would need her to handle the court, unless she really did want to become a captain or even a Marshal. Then their places would be exchanged and he would know how it felt to be locked up at court while all his friends were riding free on the plains.

At last he sent all the advisors away with strict orders to enjoy themselves for once. His heart lifted at the thought of learning about Imrahil's horses from Lothíriel. He took Firefoot and headed to the Dol Amroth corrals, answering all those who hailed him.

The corrals, situated near a stand of trees, were not as crowded as the camp; most of the soldiers were either on duty or celebrating. Only a few grooms moved about here and there, checking that there was enough hay and fresh water in the troughs. Éomer dismounted and looked about. Finally he spotted her, sitting on the railing of a paddock fence, her back to him, as she watched the Dol Amroth horses. He approached her, noting her bowed head and her arms crossed tightly against her chest. "My lady!"

She did not look at him, and he heard the barest tremble in her otherwise controlled voice. "I am sorry, my lord, but I am indisposed. Perhaps one of my brothers will show you the horses instead."

He leaned against the railing next to her, searching for an explanation. She turned her face away from him, though not before he caught a glimpse of her red-rimmed eyes. What had happened? Surely Imrahil had not been too hard on her! "What's happened?"

She gave a shaky sigh. "I have just learned that soldiers are not the only ones who do not come home from war."

His heart sank for her as he realized her meaning. "Your Felagund?"

She nodded. "Elphir told me," she whispered.

"I am sorry," he said, thinking how well he knew the grief of losing horses. Even now, after their great victory, there were men in his éoreds who refused to celebrate because their steeds had been killed. It hurt too much to even think of what he would feel if he lost Firefoot.

"Thank you," she said. "But I do not even know where he lies." Her voice broke on the last word, and she wept, her shoulders shaking as she covered her face with her palm.

He put a hand gently on her back, full of sympathy for her. "Lothíriel, won't you look at me?"

She did, slowly. Her face was red and tears ran down her cheeks, but she dashed them away. "What a weak, spoiled fool you must think me, my lord, to react like this when your people have lost so much. I apologize." She put her feet on the ground to stand, but she did not shake him away.

He shook his head. "Even our shield-maidens weep. There is no shame, and you have nothing to apologize for."

She looked up at him, searching his face as if she thought she would find answers. "He must have been terrified, and in pain. Elphir was not even with him when he died. I hope it was quick." She bit her lip and shut her eyes.

He shook his head. "Do not dwell on that."

"What am I to dwell on, then?"

He sighed heavily, and said the only thing he could think of. "In Rohan we say that horses go to Béma's green fields, near the great mead hall, where they can run from sunrise to sunset. Felagund will wait for you."

She was silent a long time, but she leaned in to his touch. "That is a comforting belief," she said eventually, though her voice was still raw. She took a slight step away from him, straightening, and he let his hand drop, sensing that the moment was over.

"I do not wish to be here any more," she said softly. "I am sorry to have spoiled your afternoon, my lord."

"Don't worry about that," he said, shaking his head. "I will escort you to your father's tent, if you want."

"No, I am going back to the hospital tent. The work will help me occupy my mind."

He walked her back in silence, wishing the whole way that there was something he could do to ease her grief.


End file.
